A survey of the EMI Great Conductors of the 20th Century series, celebrating the artistry of eminent leaders who defined orchestral performance in the era of recordings

The excellence and prestige of the PhilipsGreat Pianists of the 20th Century series demanded a successor, and logically this is it, since so many superstar performers of the last century were conductors who collectively shaped the course of classical music. Any serious attempt to compile a project of such daunting scope demands instant respect and attention.

Great Conductors of the 20th Century is a joint venture between the production and licensing expertise of IMG Artists and the international marketing and distribution clout of EMI. Sixty volumes were planned with hopes for even more. Unfortunately, though, perhaps reflecting our leaner climate for classical projects, the producers now advise that only forty will be issued. Thus, rather than a proud celebration of the full wealth of this keystone of classical art, the truncated result is tinged with regret for what might have been. Even so, the edition stimulates many thoughts, not only about its particular subjects but of trends and issues that transcend the specific contents.

Through the time of Mendelssohn, the conductor (often the composer himself at the keyboard or on violin) kept time, coordinated the entrances of the players and generally assured the accuracy of the rendition. But in the mid-19th century, with Berlioz and especially Wagner, the conductor emerged as a full-fledged contributor to, and even sculptor of, the performance, often adding his own strong interpretive input to craft a subjective response that went well beyond the immediate demands of the score. Wagner himself placed primary emphasis upon tempo, but soon notions of texture and intangible qualities of personality emerged and became dominant. Modern conductors routinely supplant the fame of their ensembles.

An edition of this type faces an immediate difficulty – how to effectively summarize a career, which typically spans several decades and hundreds of recordings, in a mere 2½ hours? The lazy answer would have been to compile a series of “greatest hits” packages, but, to their credit, the producers resisted that temptation. They also confronted the challenge of appealing to fans who presumably already have most of a favorite conductor's commercial output and are not about to buy it all again. Their solution was two-fold.

First, they attempted to broaden the edition's appeal and attract new-comers by emphasizing mainstream repertoire. In a way, that's appropriate, since the focus here is on interpretation, the nuances of which are more readily heard by comparing versions of familiar material. The hitch, though, is that the volumes overflow with warhorses while by-passing pieces that could use more exposure and might have presented its subject conductors in a unique light. Apparently, the producers gambled that potential collectors would prefer yet another Till Eulenspiegel, Meistersinger Overture or La Valse (three versions each) to less familiar material that would expand their horizons.

Second, despite the overlap of repertoire, the producers have tried to avoid duplication of existing collections by choosing performances from radio broadcasts and LPs not previously released on CD. While the results aren't consistently revelatory, they often supplement available material and thus are apt to attract seasoned collectors. The unavoidable risk in such an approach is to present novices with a skewed view of a lengthy career that necessarily omits portions already well documented.

Despite inevitable second-guessing (do Cluytens, Malko or Busch really deserve to be in such an exclusive group?) the volumes present a mix of acknowledged giants (Walter, Stokowski, Klemperer) and more obscure but deserving talents (Coates, Talich, Golovanov, Munch). One aspect of the edition that can't be disputed, though, is the fine presentation. Each 2-CD volume is mid-priced (with the final sets two-for-one), well-transferred, efficiently packed into a compact slimline box inside a slipcase, enhanced with cogent and informative liner notes, graced with striking black and white portraits, and dignified with a uniform and elegant graphic style. To the frustration of those of us in the cultural backwater of the US, though, our release schedule had lagged about six months behind Europe. (The reason for this escapes me – in our age of multinational retailing, perhaps the reason why US sales seem depressed is that by the time material becomes available in America enthusiasts already will have bought their selections from e-tailers and overseas distributors, thereby only worsening the perception that US classical consumers are withering away.)

Although few of the performances warrant top recommendation, they neatly define and enrich our knowledge of their subjects and more generally foster appreciation of the variety of conducting styles that defined the recorded era. Indeed, the vast majority struck me as being of exceptional interest in some way. I've presented them below roughly in the order of my personal enthusiasm. I've omitted filler pieces and specific orchestras and recording dates from the contents listings, since you can get complete information on the EMI website. If you'd like to jump ahead to a favorite conductor, here's an alphabetical index:

For those inclined toward superlatives and rankings, the label of this entire series tempts us to consider who, among its 40 subjects, truly was the single greatest conductor of the twentieth century. A reliable or even clearly defensible answer is impossibly subjective, of course, but the most influential conductor surely was Toscanini. A half-century ago, he was the god of classical music – called simply “the Maestro,” as if there could be no other. Yet, nowadays it’s often hard to hear why. As I’ve detailed elsewhere, the problem is that far too many of his incessantly repackaged and reissued records came at the very end of his long career, when his creative spark had largely dimmed, his inspiration had calcified into grim resolve and his supple invention had become an effigy of strict severity. This package avoids that by focusing on his NBC broadcast concerts in which much of his former glory remained abundant and potent. Half of the eight pieces are previously unreleased. Although brief, the Manon Lescaut Intermezzo encapsulates the essence of Toscanini’s genius at its zenith – a superlative balance of formal structure and barely suppressed passion, in which human experience is sublimated into artistic expression. In the excellent CD booklet notes, Toscanini maven Mortimer H. Frank cites the 1948 Brahms Fourth included here as the conductor's finest rendition, combining the transparent textures of his 1951 studio version with the greater freedom of his earlier readings. That’s true enough, but it overlooks Toscanini’s first and last recordings outside the NBC domain, both of London concerts – a 1935 BBC (on EMI) and especially a 1952 Philharmonia in which he summoned, perhaps for the last time in his life, a degree of drive that transforms his generally arid Brahms into a vital cause. The 1948 NBC concert heard here is nearly as fine, its chief disappointment for me being the finale which Toscanini views more as a dry, reflexive academic exercise (after all, it is in the form of an ancient passacaglia) rather than the living, heaving summation of human experience that Furtwangler and others coaxed out of it. The Gotterdammerung finale with Helen Traubel is new, a live take made two days after, and nearly identical to, the 1941 studio recording, just slightly more yielding and vivid – and prefaced by a minute more of music that provides an atmospheric prologue. The final new piece is a 1948 Dvorak Symphonic Variations. While classically reserved, it integrates the brief sections more fully and projects a deeper-rooted power than his only other known version from 1951 (on Arkadia) that’s cleaner and more detailed but rather fragmented and tentative. The remaining material is already available elsewhere but, with one exception, sounds notably better in the present transfers. The most interesting comparison for this 1938 Rienzi Overture is the superb 1953 concert version by Toscanini’s protégé Guido Cantelli with the same orchestra (AS Disc); for me, Cantelli trumps his mentor with a more consistently interesting molding of phrases, greater elasticity, constant seething tension and a thrillingly effective gradual escalation to the climax (rather than Toscanini’s sudden plunge into double-time). The 1941 Berlioz Francs-Juges Overture and the 1945 Bellini Norma introductory chorus are cogent models of the Toscanini outlook, properly formal and imposing with clipped, clear impetus rather than rhetorical flourishes or superficial exhilaration. The only questionable inclusion on this volume seems the needless duplication of a 1937 BBC studio recording of the Beethoven Pastorale. The murky transfer here is far less clear than on Biddulph. In his notes to that set, Harris Goldsmith tellingly saluted the performance as charismatic, warm, friendly and with ingratiating finesse when compared to the scorched Latin intensity of the 1952 NBC recording. Yet, for me Toscanini’s best documented performance was in his 1939 NBC broadcast Beethoven cycle – just as virtuostic and alert but with an extra edge of nervous tension and a thunderstorm that really rages. I’d have gladly traded this Pastorale for a few more undiscovered treasures in the seemingly inexhaustible trove of Toscanini broadcast recordings from which this volume draws such strength and appeal.

It seems remarkable that a relatively small country that stood largely outside the mainstream of European musical development has managed to contribute so mightily to twentieth century conducting. Yet, of the forty conductors included in this series, three hail from Bohemia (now Czechoslovakia) – Talich, Ancerl and Rafael Kubelik. But while Talich remained embedded in his native soil throughout his career (and, in a sense, thereby suffered a diminished international reputation) and Ancerl spent his two most productive decades there, Kubelik’s career was spent largely in exile. After struggling to maintain local musical standards throughout World War II and its aftermath, Kubelik left following the 1948 Communist coup, never to return until emerging from retirement in 1990 for a symbolic concert of Smetana’s deeply patriotic Ma Vlast (“My Country”). Yet, despite geographical displacement, his national roots informed his entire career. As he is quoted in the fine notes by Patrick Lambert, “I left my country but I did not leave my nation. My nation was in my heart all the time.” By presenting work with seven different Czech, German, Austrian and American orchestras, this volume demonstrates the consistency of his outlook, a heady combination of vitality and lyricism, passion and control, with which he infused a variety of disparate ensembles. The most momentous performance is a June 1948 Czech Philharmonic recording of the Symphony # 4 of his compatriot Martinu, which he would perform once more three weeks later at his very last concert with the orchestra. Not only is the reading thoroughly idiomatic and a fine reflection of the disquiet of the composer, exiled in America, but it reverberates with chafing against the new Communist strictures by both the ensemble and the conductor, himself on the verge of the most wrenching decision of his career – to leave; as he put it at the time, “A caged bird cannot sing. I have left my country in order not to have to leave my people.” Equally authentic reflections of his ingrained Czech heritage, but with foreign forces, are a vivacious but earnest reading of the rarely heard Dvorak Slavonic Rhapsody (with the Royal Philharmonic, 1959) and a thoroughly natural and unpretentious rendition of the more familiar Janacek Sinfonietta (beautifully played by the Vienna Philharmonic, 1955). After working throughout Europe, Kubelik took the helm of the Chicago Symphony, where he made an acclaimed series of “Living Presence” LPs for Mercury, captured by a single microphone hung above the podium in mono sound that still startles with its vivid yet natural intensity. Among their recording projects was a complete Ma Vlast, played with a fervor radiating from the profound nationalistic feeling unleashed by what was in essence a reunion between the conductor and many of the Chicago players, themselves immigrants from Bohemia. The 1953 Hindemith heard here is equally fine, with a bold extroversion rarely encountered in studio confines. Although the CD reissue on Mercury 434 397 was supervised by the original producer, Wilma Cozart Fine (her husband Robert Fine engineered), the transfer here is less shrill and more full-bodied. Kubelik capped off his career with two decades of leading the Bavarian Radio Symphony, with whom he cut a celebrated Mahler cycle, from which we have here a piercing Adagio from the unfinished Tenth in which Kubelik fully summons the Bohemian composer’s heartfelt and fervent longing for life struggling to emerge from the suffocating pall of oppression. Of the other pieces included here, a 1952 Philharmonia Midsummer Night's Dream Overture is crisp, fleet and nimble, a 1964 Berlin Philharmonic Genoveva Overture is beautifully proportioned and a 1960 Vienna Philharmonic Schubert Symphony # 3 takes a middle course between the conscious charm of Beecham and the feisty spirit of the original instrument versions.

Perhaps nowhere is the schism between British and American taste more pronounced than with this volume. (Perhaps I flatter myself – I should say between British and my taste.) In a devout and thorough review on the British Musicweb site, Christopher Howell dubs this set “wonderful and revelatory” and lavishes praise on every note. (I really don't mean to sound facetious – please read his fine, informed review .) While I salute Boult's extraordinary contributions to British musical life, the value of his articulate observations and the idiomatic rightness of his performances of English music, the records included here strike me as more dutiful than inspired. In a bold effort to avoid a “greatest hits” repackaging syndrome, with the single exception of the Walton overture the producers consciously shun the English music which he championed and of which he was an acknowledged master in favor of an effort to display the catholic side of his repertoire. His readings of the Tchaikovsky, Schubert, Wolf and even Berlioz are stylish and succeed in the well-manicured tradition of Beecham, et. al. But with music where more transpires beneath the surface, his fastidious precision, urbane moderation and professional polish leave a lot untouched. It's not that his Beethoven, Schumann or even the snippet of Sibelius is dull – on the contrary, they're highly accomplished – but others have found far deeper truths and more edifying insights to explore.

Mravinsky is surely one of the top conductors of his time, but this is a curious collection, appealing neither to the veteran collector nor the novice. The EMI website claims that the Bruckner Seventh is "a particularly important addition to [Mravinsky's] discography," while the Mozart is "also new to the catalog." Actually, both are already on Russian Disc (combined on the same CD, # 911), as are all the rest of the recordings here. So if nothing is new (and the transfers are only marginally richer) but rather replicate existing material, why not at least give newcomers a solid dose of the repertoire for which Mravinsky is famed, like the Shostakovich, Prokofiev and Tchaikovsky symphonies? While heartened to see his inclusion in this series, Mravinsky fans will be disappointed that much of this set fails to give a representative portrait of this great artist. The notes (by Gregor Tassie) claim that this recording of the Haydn Symphony # 88 "underlines ... its drama, flowing grace and humour," but I sure don't hear it; rather, while the largo plumbs a few emotional depths, the rest is far too sober and severe to convey any of the composer's subtle wit and humanity. Nor, for that matter, does it achieve much else; rather, it's just another pedestrian run-through, of which there are many others. So what's the point? Were this a newly-uncovered tape its inclusion could be justified as augmenting our knowledge of Mravinsky's art, but it's not; rather, it just shows that he programmed Haydn, for which I would have readily taken the author's word. The notes also stretch to establish Mravinsky's pedigree within the tradition of "authentic" Bruckner interpretation but completely miss the point. While he may have played a pioneering role to introduce Bruckner to Russian audiences, Mravinsky's Bruckner interpretations stand boldly apart from the mainstream, uncompromised by emulation of the more familiar "German" style of solid power, thick textures and richly layered sound. Rather, his unique approach is brittle, sharp and angular (abetted in part by bass-deficient recording), deadly serious but with a penetrating vision. (The BMG Mravinsky Edition has similarly compelling concerts of the Eighth and Ninth Symphonies.) The final hour of this set at last presents Mravinsky in his element – a superb 1983 Francesca da Rimini rendered all the more thrilling by Mravinsky's trademark discipline and superb control that contrasts the unaffected central section with the superheated sustained outbursts of the opening and end, plus a thoroughly idiomatic and surprisingly light-handed 1968 Glazunov Symphony # 5.